A Cherry Blossom in Winter

By Ron Singerton

The Japanese - Russian War – Before the Revolution
As the 20th century dawns, Japan is a rising power at odds with determinedly expanding Russia. In Moscow and St. Petersburg, aristocrats advance their political interests and have affairs as factory workers starve. Young Alexei Brusilov, son of an ambassador, accompanies his father to Japan and there falls in love with the daughter of a Japanese war hero. Despite threats and warnings, he pursues this forbidden romance, delighted to discover that Kimi-san returns his affection, until disaster overtakes them.
Amid the rising storm of revolution at home, Alexei returns to St. Petersburg to become a naval officer. A deadly rivalry with another cadet, a dangerous family secret, and friendships with revolutionaries imperil his career – and his life. Years later, Alexei finds himself aboard ship as the rusting and badly out of date Russian fleet is sent half way around the world to fight a modern and determined Japanese Navy. Will Alexei live to see his love again, or die under the blazing guns of the fast moving enemy cruisers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penmore Press LLC
• Release date: Jun 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781942756934

Ron Singerton

After graduating from California State University at Long Beach in 1965, Ron Singerton joined the U.S. Army Security Agency and spent his overseas time in Asia.The following twenty-five years were devoted to teaching history and art in Southern California High schools where he developed a particular love for writing and historical research.During the early 1980s, he authored a series, “Moments in History”, of some thirty mini books on famous legendary people and events ranging from Columbus to the moon landing. The books were adopted as supplementary teaching material for the State of California and approved by the Los Angeles School board as a teaching aid. Published by Santillana Publishing Company, the original ones are considered collectors’ items.An avid horseman and saber fencer with a special interest in the American Civil War, he “heard the bugle and the sound of the drums” and became a re-enactor riding with the Union cavalry in dozens of engagements from California to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.Always interested in an exciting but obscure story, his historical research meandered from the nineteenth and twentieth Century back to the ancient world. Singerton once said, “Technology of the past often appears elementary to us, the emotions do not.” For the writer, the thoughts of peoples long past, as well as civilizations now little more than sand pitted ruins, still evolve into a pageant of love, intrigue and dire conflict. “It is nothing less than a shadowed mirror of our own world.”Through the writings of Plutarch, Pliny and Julius Caesar he uncovered an epic event that would take him from Rome in the last days of Republic to the Great Wall of China. After years of research the tale became the gist of a two volume novel: The Villa of Deceit and The Silk and the Sword.Ron is also a professional artist who, with his wife Darla, owns and creates works for their art gallery, Singerton Fine Arts, in Idyllwild, California, where he works in glass, stone, paint and bronze.

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In Appreciation

I wish to extend my deepest gratitude to my editor, Chris Wozney, for unstinting attention to detail and adroit suggestions that were of inestimable value. My thanks also to Michael James, my publisher, for his encouragement and insight in the development of this novel. Thanks to Christine Horner, for her design of the book cover, a compelling and thoughtful work. And always to Darla, my wife, for her questions, comments and remarkable willingness to listen and evaluate the writing and rewriting of each page of  A Cherry Blossom in Winter.

Poem

Anguish and Longing

Bud of the Cherry Blossom

On Winter’s Bare Branch.

CHAPTER 1

St. Petersburg, Russia

September, 1897

The invitational fencing competition was already in progress when Admiral Kochenkov, superintendent of the prestigious Nikolaevsky Naval Academy, mounted the platform to observe the saber matches. The admiral was a stout gentleman, with a flushed face partly hidden by a full white beard. His uniform was dark blue, adorned with three resplendent medals, the Order of St. Andrew, the Order of Alexander Nevsky, and the Imperial Order of St. Anna, all presented for military gallantry. An officer’s jeweled sword hung at his side—a gift from Tsar Alexander III for bravery in the war against Turkey. He joined the two dozen other dignitaries gazing down at the sparring cadets in their distinctive white trousers and canvas jackets. After nodding his greetings to several of the elite, he turned his attention to a knot of fencers who were avidly watching one particular match. 

Daddy, you’re here! cried a lithe, lovely young woman. She broke away from a gaggle of girlfriends and ran up the steps to throw her arms about him, her gleaming red hair tousling against his uniform. 

Decorum, Svetlana, decorum, admonished the admiral, embarrassed by his daughter’s exuberance. 

To hell with decorum, she said, disregarding the raised eyebrows of the assemblage. You look positively handsome! Doesn’t my admiral look devastating? she called to her friends. Then, standing on her tiptoes, she whispered, Boris has been doing well in the competition! You have to see him. 

Yes, the admiral said, but he may meet his match today. And you know I do not approve of your flirting with him. 

Oh, Daddy, he is a little pompous, but he is a cadet, and he does like me. 

Not wishing to argue with her, the admiral said, Be a good girl and rejoin your friends. I must watch this competition. 

Svetlana made a face and tossed her head, then clattered down the stairs to rejoin her friends. 

Who are those two? asked Kochenkov, addressing Captain Isorovsky and gesturing towards the two masked fencers upon whom a dozen cadets were focused.

The tall one is Cadet Sergei Ivanovich Vershinin. The other is Alexei Yevgenovich Brusilov, the captain replied. 

A surprised look came to the admiral’s face. Seeing it, Isorovsky explained, Alexei has already eliminated two of our best. We are quite interested to see how he does against Sergei Ivanovich. 

Ah, yes, the champion of the épée team, remarked Kochenkov. But saber is not his best weapon. 

True, but I’m told that he taught Alexei saber. They’re good friends despite the age difference, and Alexei looks up to him. It’s unfortunate that Alexei is only seventeen, a year too young for the Academy. 

He’ll be here soon enough. I’ll speak to his father; I know him well.

The match was for three points to win, and touches were counted when the blade connected with the steel mask, a sleeve, or the torso of the opponent. Scoring with the point of the saber was legal but rarely done, since the saber was predominantly a slashing weapon. Though it had been decades since swords had been employed in naval combat, carrying the weapon and expertise in its use were considered the marks of an officer and a gentleman. Moreover, the saber was utilized by cavalry of all nations.

Sergei, tall and stocky, was better suited to the épée, for which a long reach is invaluable, since only the weapon’s point connected with the target. Endurance was also essential; an épée match could last minutes, whereas a saber bout might be over in seconds. But Sergei’s strength served him well with the saber, too, and he prided himself on his skill.

Members of the saber and épée teams spent hours in the gymnasium practicing parries and lunges under the uncompromising gaze of fencing masters. Decorum was studiously observed; jovial camaraderie had no place in competition, especially when cadets of the Naval Academy faced those of the Army. On rare occasions students of other universities were invited, or sons of the nobility, such as Alexei. Guests were unknown quantities, so it was with intense interest that the cadets watched the match, gauging the speed and agility of the rivals. Even an amateur could see these two young men were extraordinary.

Alexei had scored the first and fourth point, Sergei the second and third. The next touch would be the decisive one.

Sergei was wary. Ignoring the judges and breathless cadets, his eyes were fixed on Alexei. He took two steps back, so that Alexei would have to advance to keep up the pressure of his blade against Sergei’s. A slight misstep, the saber’s guard a fraction out of line, could be an opening for a lightning strike. Choosing an unusual attack, Sergei executed a slashing head cut to bring the saber down atop Alexei’s mask. But a parry in prime, the blade held horizontal over the head, stopped the blade. Sergei had no time to recover to an en garde position; Alexei swept his saber down, striking Sergei’s jacket with an audible slap.

"Touché!" called the two judges standing behind Alexei. The match concluded, cadets applauded as both fencers removed their masks, saluted one another, and shook hands. 

Sergei grinned and said, Another damn welt. A little softer with the blade would be greatly appreciated, Alexei. This is demoralizing. Challenge me in épée and I’d cut you to pieces and regain my honor. 

"And I’d spend the day sewing up holes. No, thank you, I’ll stick to saber. But I’ll whack you more gently next time. Just remember the words of Danton: ‘de l‘audace, encore de l’audace, et toujour de l’audace’."

Audacity, and more audacity, always audacity, said Sergei. "Now you tell me!" 

There was congenial laughter from the onlookers as the fencers stepped out of the circle to take a break. Slapping each other on the back, they had started for a table that held glasses of cold water when an insistent voice made them both stop and turn their heads. 

It’s my turn, said a tall, lanky cadet with a pinched face and dark hair brushed over his forehead. 

"Can’t you wait a moment, Sokolov? Mssr. Brusilov has just finished three matches; I suspect he would like a moment to recover," said one of the fencing masters. 

I’m a cadet with responsibilities, Boris Sokolov said airily. I don’t have time to wait, and I doubt that one so young would need recovery time. 

The fencing master looked from Boris, who imperiously couched his saber in the crook of his left arm, his mask tilted up on his head, to Alexei. 

I’m fine, said Alexei. I would be honored to face him. 

In that case, you may both take your positions, said the instructor. The winner must score three touches.

Two judges stood behind and on either side of Alexei and two behind Sokolov, each ready to raise a hand and call "Touché" when a point was scored. Both fencers raised the hilt of their saber to eye level, then swept it down in a smart salute. 

"En garde; begin!" came the command from the fencing master. 

As before, cadets stood to the side of the large chamber, whose walls rang with the clash of blades, their eyes taking in the forward and back movements and parries of the two fencers. Boris towered over Alexei, but each of his extensions was met by a parry and a riposte, causing Boris to rethink his next sortie. He was an adequate fencer, particularly with the foil; but he was known to be temperamental and surly if he lost a match, and more than one junior cadet had lost to him deliberately to avoid retribution. As a result, Boris had an inflated, and inflamed, opinion of his abilities.

Alexei, not having had any opportunity to observe Boris’s technique, decided to start on the defensive. Sensing hesitation, Boris lunged, but Alexei disengaged, dropping the point of his weapon to the outside of Boris’s saber, striking it and sending the blade far off target. Then with a flick of the wrist, the tip of Alexei’s saber touched the glove of Boris’s hand, and two judges abruptly called "Touché."

Boris was startled, but it was only the first victory of the match. He could acknowledge the touch with a quick salute without losing face. There was still time to humble this youth, and it would not do to incense the judges with blatant rudeness. 

The second round took much longer, both participants making quick lunges and repartees. Tiring of the back and forth, and sensing fatigue in his opponent, Boris made a feint to the mask and a quick lunge to the torso, but he was late. Alexei parried the blade and struck Boris’s mask in a lightning move. 

Again the judges called the touch, and Boris, mindful of his audience, haltingly saluted before resuming the en garde position. All eyes were on the duelists, so none of the observers noticed Admiral Kochenkov walk onto the gymnasium floor, followed by the captain. 

I must reverse this, thought Boris. He would come from behind, even the score—with opinion against him—and drive home the point. He would humiliate this child! There must be no missteps, no vacillation.

All his attention was on his opponent. He did not see the cadets make way for the admiral. Boris advanced, his blade tapping Alexei’s, forcing the youth back between the parallel lines of the court. Boris lunged, his saber, an extension of his arm, aimed directly at Alexei’s midriff. Alexei leapt back; his blade swept in a half-circle to appear on the other side of his opponent’s. A swift, decisive parry with a slight tap sent Boris’s thrust into mid-air. Suddenly Alexei dropped to his left knee and shot his right arm forward. Boris, continuing his forward movement, was appalled to feel the point of Alexei’s blade strike his fencing jacket. Enraged by the speed and daring of the move, Boris stopped, flung off his mask and threw his saber to the ground. 

Alexei removed his mask and, alarmed, glanced at the amazed audience. Not knowing what else to do, he extended his hand to Boris for the customary handshake, but the cadet stormed off the court.

Halt! a deep voice commanded. 

Abruptly Boris stopped, turned. 

You will show sportsmanship and respect. You will recover your weapon and shake his hand in accordance with the requirements of the Academy. And you will do it now! barked Captain Isorovsky. 

Boris, ashen-faced, took in the reproving looks of both the admiral and the captain. His eyes narrowed. Spinning on his heel, he returned and said in a brusque voice, I am ordered to shake your hand. 

You don’t have to, said Alexei. 

Of course I do. It was an order. Fury and disgust welled up in Boris as he barely touched Alexei’s extended hand. 

***

Still seething, Boris stormed down the sidewalk, ignored the evening crowds as he and Svetlana walked along the illuminated Nevsky Prospekt.

Humiliated, absolutely humiliated! cried Boris. 

I thought you fenced very well. That boy is very quick but hardly has your experience. You would certainly beat him in foil. Maybe you should challenge him. 

I will, but it won’t be in foil. I’ll get him, just like I did that Jewish kid. 

The one who was enrolled in the Academy? 

Yes, that one. 

No one ever found out about that, did they? I mean, the way he simply disappeared? asked Svetlana with a worried look. 

Of course not. And you must never say a word. You promised. 

I will never say a thing. I adore you, Boris, and I know how to keep secrets.

In a quieter voice she added, I have some of my own. 

Boris, striding ahead, head hunched forward, did not hear.

***

I have never seen such a lack of sportsmanship. It was despicable, said the captain. He should be dismissed from the Academy. 

Admiral Grigory Kochenkov signaled for his glass to be refilled before replying. Sokolov is a difficult young man, and I will not tolerate such conduct again, but perhaps he learned from the episode on the court. I believe in giving a second chance. 

"But is it a second chance? Or is it an umpteenth? The lads are wary of him; his uncle, you know." 

His uncle doesn’t concern me, but the honor of the Academy certainly does, replied the admiral, as a waiter brought him a glass of Scotch, a taste he’d acquired during his time in England. 

"And Svetlana? Were she my daughter—" But what Captain Isorovsky would do were Svetlana his daughter went unstated, for their conversation was interrupted by a new arrival.

There you are! I thought you would be here, said Count Brusilov, huffing his way past fashionably dressed gentlemen. The English Club was one of the finest in St. Petersburg. 

I am furious! I am absolutely beside myself! You can’t imagine what those idiots have done, said the count, sitting heavily in a chair at Kochenkov’s table. 

Furious, Yevgeny? About what? I’m sure you heard that your son whipped every saber fencer on the team. I would be proud, not angry, said the admiral, wondering what had riled Brusilov this time. 

Waving off the praise for Alexei, Brusilov said, No! I mean the Foreign Office and that toad, Witte. 

Count Witte, the Minister of Treasury? inquired Captain Isorovsky. 

Who else? I spent my entire life in the service of the Tsar! Junior consul in every despicable country you can imagine, and just last week I was finally promoted. I was to be senior consul in Bavaria! It would have been an assignment worthy of all my efforts as an esteemed representative of Nicholas II. 

Indeed! So what happened? asked Kochenkov, lighting a cigar and sitting back in his chair. He watched Brusilov closely through the veil of smoke.

That damn Witte stuck his head in where it did not belong! Trod right into the foreign office and said, ‘Oh no, that position is promised to Count Kiliovska. Brusilov should be sent to Japan!’ Japan! Can you imagine? The Tsar hates those monkeys, and so do I. And the post is for three miserable years. 

Were you in the foreign office to protest? asked Captain Isorovsky. 

No, I was detained, said the count, and he motioned for his vodka. 

Japan is an important posting, especially in today’s political climate, the admiral pointed out. Wilhelm is an ally; we have nothing to fear from Spain. But Japan…. 

Am I supposed to eat rice and raw fish and sleep on a straw mat? And what about my own business? I will be too far away from the decision-making. I am on the board, you know. The timing is preposterous! declared the count vehemently. He swallowed half his drink, then set about extracting a cheroot from a monogrammed gold case. 

You can telegraph from Japan, just as you would from Bavaria, said the captain soothingly. The mill will continue to function. Lumber will be cut. 

From Berlin I can get back here in two days. By ship from Tokyo it will take weeks, Brusilov countered morosely. He puffed furiously, then expelled a cloud of aromatic smoke.

"Speaking of Mssr. Witte, I hear that he’s proposed a trans-Siberian railroad to go from here to Vladisvostok," said Kochenkov quietly.

Count Brusilov sipped from his drink and looked closely at the admiral. So? How does that involve us? 

If the Tsar approves the project, we’re talking about the greatest building enterprise in the history of Russia and the longest railroad in the world. I have a major share in the St. Petersburg steel mill, and a railroad needs tracks, said Kochenkov. 

"And railroad ties, bridges, telegraph poles, and train stations, interjected the captain. Made of lumber."

Brusilov cocked his head, then said, But if Witte is in charge…. 

He’s simply proposing the construction. I doubt he will be awarding contracts, Yevgeny. I do have influence at court, and the Romanovs enjoy the company of my wife. She could charm a cobra. This venture could prove extremely profitable. Worth millions, said the admiral. 

Brusilov leaned back and considered. Very interesting. But I maintain that I am worthy of a higher office, and I’m sure the Tsar will agree. A little effort in the right direction could gain me an ambassadorship. Perhaps in Spain, a real plum, said the count.

The railroad will be a few years in the planning. Perhaps the less you criticize Witte the better, suggested Captain Isorovsky with a smile.

Now I do have a question, said the admiral. "I presume that you are going to Japan in the next few weeks, so let’s settle this now: I want your son in my Academy. He would be invaluable on the saber team—you know how intense the competition is between the Navy and Army—and I can waive the matter of his age. He will be looked after, of that I can assure you. I assume he is staying in St. Petersburg with his mother?" 

I have no intention of taking him with me, if indeed I must go. He would only get in trouble there. I don’t need an embarrassment. 

I hardly see how he would be an embarrassment, said the admiral.

I don’t want him to get any ideas about Japanese girls. God forbid! No, he stays here, and that concern will be off my shoulder, said the count. Just as abruptly as he‘d come in, he finished his drink, excused himself and bustled out. 

Captain Isorovsky watched him go and turned to Kochenkov. He doesn’t care much for his son, does he? 

Unfortunately, no, agreed the admiral. 

The lad is a good boy. Any father would be proud to have such a son. So I would like to ask, since I may be one of his instructors, is there a problem I should know about? 

There is a problem, but not one that should adversely effect the boy’s progress at the Academy. Brusilov’s anger with his son is misdirected. It’s a rather complicated family problem. 

Involving his wife? 

Something along those lines. 

And these are things that you know, said the captain, lighting a cheroot and giving the admiral a quizzical look. 

The admiral flicked an ash from his cigar, considered for a moment, and replied, Yes, Isorovsky, there are things I know that he does not. 

And you are not about to inform him, are you? 

No, I will not ‘inform’ him, nor will I inform Alexei. Not that he doesn’t deserve to know, but it will be for him to find out. 

I did not appreciate how complex you are, or should I say, how devious, Admiral. There are state secrets and family secrets, and both are magnificently intriguing. 

Indeed. And both must be guarded. 

***

I’m surprised that your father didn’t come to the fencing competition. He would have enjoyed seeing you win, said Sergei.

The competition was in the morning, and he’s rarely sober before noon, said Alexei, trying to keep up with his friend as they hurried through a dingy part of the city consisting of windowless factories. It was cold; bundled workers, including young women and children, trudged through pathways of slush. Heavily laden carts pulled by horses in shaggy winter coats rumbled past. On occasion a three-horse troika with tinkling bells sped past, sending spray all about. Those invariably carried factory owners or wealthy investors, their passengers oblivious to those scrambling out of the way.

Do you think we can get in? asked Alexei, an anxious tone to his voice.

"You’re not going anywhere near the door! It’s too damn dangerous. If your father found out he’d kill both of us."

But Tatiana will be inside. Won’t it be dangerous for her? asked Alexei.

She lives for danger and for the revolution. It’s in her blood. But you must not be seen.

But you mustn’t, either. If you’re caught you’d be expelled, or worse.

I’ll only be inside for a few minutes. I promised her.

You’re in the same cell as she, aren’t you?

Don’t talk about it! Sergei warned sharply. "The Okhrana has spies everywhere. Any opposition to the regime is dangerous."

They slipped away from the stream of workers and stood in an alcove of a boarded up and abandoned warehouse.

She’s in there, Sergei said, jerking his head in the direction the clothing factory across the street.

Why did she choose that one? said Alexei, his hands in his pockets to ward off the cold.

She didn’t. Her cell did. A delegation learned of our efforts to help workers. This was after they went to the owners and asked for a raise and better lighting around the machines; it’s quite dark inside, and people get hurt.

Did they get the raise or the lighting?

They got fired. So a second group of workers came and said that they need coordination and an agitator, because many of the women and children are afraid to protest working conditions.

And that’s when your girlfriend was sent? asked Alexei, as he watched a huddled group of women in coats and shawls furtively glance up and down the street.

We’ll wait here, said Sergei as he pulled a hat low on his head and peered at the heavy door of the Number Four Goronska clothing factory.

***

Tatiana, wearing a brown woolen coat smeared with mud and a scarf over her head, carried a bundle of cloth to a shearing table. An elderly babushka with a round face and little piggish eyes glanced at her and said, "Nyet, nyet. I know what you do—and what follows. The police, the bully gangs, or the Okhrana will come. They will beat us. See my grand-daughter over there? She is only six; she may be hurt. I will not help you."

I am here to help you, said Tatiana over the staccato rattling of five hundred sewing machines. Your grand-daughter should not even be here. She has rickets, doesn’t she? There’s no sunlight here. We can change that.

The old woman shook her head, and her eyes darted towards a determined inspector checking stitching in army overcoats. Tatiana averted her face and looked at the inspector from the corner of her eye. Then she nodded and said, Tomorrow at eleven.

Tatiana left several reams of cloth with the old woman, passed two children carrying bobbins of thread, then stood at a table where a man and his wife were trying to extract thread from a faulty machine. A pile of officers’ coats and pants were stacked beside them. She spoke to them softly. The man glanced about. Then, looking down at his work, he murmured, It will be too dangerous for the children. They should stay home.

It’s the children that the foreign journalists will photograph and write about! The demonstration must be peaceful, but the capitalists will only comply with our demands if condemned by the foreign press. English and French journalists have been told about the protest. They will be here.

The owners won’t care about European papers, and I think the journalists will alert the bosses.

The reporters want a story. They won’t tell.

They want blood, and they’ll get it. You’ll see. The owners are only concerned about profits. I think the demonstration will be meaningless. The only thing that will change the system is revolution, and that must come from inside Russia itself, said the man, and his eyes bored into Tatiana like drills. "Tell your Mensheviks or Social Democrats or whoever you’re with to stockpile guns. That’s how things will change."

Not war, not yet. The proletariat must be organized, and there must be leadership. We will only get support if a revolution starts without violence on our part. Just help me spread the word about tomorrow.

Would you like me to tell the Tsar? Invite him perhaps? the man said with a cynical grin. Yes, yes, I’ll help, but nothing goes according to plan. I hope you have lots of bandages and stretchers.

You will be with us, won’t you? asked his wife.

Of course I will, said Tatiana. I intend to lead the demonstration. We will begin here and march past the steel mill, the ammunition factory, and onto the Admiralty building. There should be thousands.

It should start earlier, before the factories open, said the man.

No, it will have greater impact if workers put down their tools and simply walk out. A strike, even for a day, will get the attention we need, said Tatiana, worried that events might spin out of control.

I just hope it stays peaceful. Not everybody is willing to be beaten without hitting back, said the woman, with worry in her eyes.

***

The next morning, the chanting of dozens of people could be heard even before Tatiana, Sergei and Alexei reached the factory. Sergei glanced at his pocket watch and said, It’s not even ten yet. They started early, and without you.

Then who’s leading? asked Alexei, as they hurried through an alley to catch up with the procession of heavily bundled workers, some holding signs aloft. Others, led by a priest, were singing a song in praise of the Tsar. An Orthodox cross was held high, surrounded by icons.

From a block away, Alexei spied several men with large tripod cameras. Journalists? he asked Sergei.

"Perhaps, or Okhrana."

Turning their faces away, the three hurried past the photographers on their side of the street and shied away from those on the other.

It’s harder to break up a large demonstration that is attracting a lot of attention than a small one just starting, said Sergei. "If the Okhrana was tipped off .…"

The procession had come to a halt in front of a crowd of men with truncheons. Behind them, a squadron of cavalry filled the entire road. There was indecision amongst the marchers. The priest, upon seeing the armed men, walked forward through the marchers, holding high his cross.

Brothers, servants of the Lord, we appeal to—

There was a rasping scrape of steel as sabers were drawn from scabbards. Cavalry horses pawed nervously at the frozen ground. A child began to cry, and the crowd stirred anxiously. Sergei, Alexei and Tatiana were still a hundred yards from the front. In a low voice Sergei said, Don’t go any further. Grabbing Tatiana’s hand, he pulled her behind a line of wagons as truncheon-wielding men rushed forward. Shouts and screams filled the street as people tried to flee; many slipped and fell on the icy pavement. Children and women were trampled underfoot, and the priest, holding tightly to his great wooden cross, was pummeled and beaten until he was immobile.

Sergei, Tatiana and Alexei tore down a back alley.

It’s over, it’s finished, Sergei gasped, when the three finally came to a halt.

Do you think we were photographed? asked Alexei.

I doubt it. Anybody moving is a blur, but somebody from the factory might have recognized me or Tatiana, Sergei replied. Catching his breath, he turned to Tatiana and said, You’d better get out of St. Petersburg for a few months. Go to Sweden; that’s where the cell has a meeting house. You’ll be safe there.

Will you come with me? she asked, her voice shaky.

"I mustn’t. I can only help if I remain useful, and anonymous. If I am accused, I will insist that one young man looks very like another, that I wasn’t at the protest. If I leave the Academy now, Okhrana will know I was involved, and that could implicate Alexei."

You should not have brought him, said Tatiana.

It was my decision, Alexei spoke up. I saw the condition of the workers and I was embarrassed about the way we live compared to them. No one that I know has to work. They all have servants. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t think it was going to be like this.

Well, now you know how one hundred and ten million people in this country are being treated by a few thousand aristocrats and capitalists! Tatiana said bitterly. "The Okhrana must have an informer in the factory. We were betrayed, but this is just beginning."

***

You are a cadet and will be a naval officer, said Alexei, as he and Sergei sat on a bench overlooking the frozen Neva River. I wonder how you can be a defender of the Tsar and the state, and a revolutionary at the same time.

I never started out to be a revolutionary, and I’m not as extreme as Tatiana. I don’t think my sympathies conflict with my allegiance to the Tsar. I love the sea and I love fencing, and the Academy is the only place I can go to have both. And yes, I want to be an officer in the Russian Navy.

But there had to be something that made you become involved, persisted Alexei.

You ask a lot of difficult questions, said Sergei, lapsing into silence. Alexei said nothing as he watched skaters on the frozen river. After a long silence, Sergei spoke.

Both my father and Tatiana’s are minor nobles, hardly important enough to be invited to the Winter Palace or ever have an audience with the Tsar. I met Tatiana at church when we lived beside the Don River. She had two brothers, both older than she. The elder was Eugene. He was smart and funny, and the three of us used to go skating and ride her father’s horses. Then he got involved in a labor strike. He was falsely accused of shooting at a policeman, and he was hanged on the spot.

Wasn’t there a trial? demanded Alexei, aghast.

Of a sort, Serge said grimly. The defense lawyer was told what to say, and it was over in an hour. Tatiana virtually disintegrated. She spoke to no except me for over a year. When at last she emerged from her grief, she and I had become very close.

Lovers? asked Alexei, having only a vague awareness of what that might entail.

Yes, lovers, said Sergei. And she became a determined and bitter revolutionary. She’s courageous and motivated, and she throws herself into any movement that will bring down the tyrants. So does her other brother, Vassily. She may speak of gradualism, but her final goal is the destruction of the Romanov dynasty and all it condones.

And you feel the same?

There was a sigh from Sergei and he said, I do not, and she tolerates that. Tatiana assumes that someday I will be just as determined as she. But I won’t risk my career, unless the regime does something completely intolerable, something absolutely requiring revolution.

I think changes are needed, but I won’t support the overthrow of the Tsar, said Alexei. I think you’re right. You don’t just overthrow six hundred years of rule. Some of them, like Peter the Great and Catherine, were innovators who made Russia a great power.

True, but that doesn’t excuse the excesses, the brutal repression and a frozen class system, said Sergei. But change will not come easy. I hope to work quietly within the system. But you, Alexei, must let matters take their course; stay out of it. It’s damn dangerous, and despite your lineage the authorities would not be kind to you.

Are you afraid? asked Alexei.

Of course I am, Sergei said somberly, looking his friend straight in the eye. It’s all very frightening, Alexei. Now I think you should go home. You have seen enough. Now you know.

***

A cloud of cigar smoke wafted toward the parlor ceiling as Count Brusilov sat brooding in his favorite chair.

I expect that I shall still have some money and this house when I get back, he said without preamble.

What are you talking about? asked his wife, as she watched a light snow fall on the garden’s bare branches.

"I thought I already told you. The